


Be Myself for You

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fanfiction, Forging (Inception), Identity Issues, M/M, Side Effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 09:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30120642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Things get weird for Eames and Arthur. Like, even weirder.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	Be Myself for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withinmelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/gifts).



> Written for the 2021 Worldbuilding exchange for withinmelove, two of whose prompts were Eames and Arthur's relationship and what the side effects of forging might be, in Inception.

Eames pushed open the door to the men's bathroom, regretting that last beer. It was a small risk, leaving the mark in a booth while he took a piss, but she was well hooked, and the place was dark. Unlikely anyone else would make a move on her before he had a chance to pump her for more information so as to set up the next extraction for Arthur.

"Whoa, honey, a little confused? Or were you lookin' for a good time?"

Eames frowned at the leering guy by the washbasin. This wasn't a gay bar and the guy wasn't pinging his gaydar. An ice-cold knot formed in his stomach: _not again_. He looked down and oh fuck, _cleavage_ , between two nicely rounded breasts.

" 'cause I'd be up for that, if you wanna–" the guy slurred, lurching forward. Eames snarled and kicked him in the balls—stilettos had their uses. Then he beat a retreat through the emergency exit at the end of the narrow hallway.

In the alley behind the bar, he pulled his latest burner phone out of what had been his wallet and was now a satin clutch purse. "Arthur?"

"... Eames? Problem?" Arthur sounded cautious. He had the burner's number in his contacts so he'd have recognized it, but Eames's voice would be wrong, too high-pitched.

"Yes, you could say that. It happened again."

There was a long pause. Arthur would be throwing his red die and finding that it landed as it should, the right way up for reality. "Well, I'm not dreaming, so that means you aren't, either," Arthur said. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not fucking drunk," Eames snapped. "I had a couple of beers, but I can hold my liquor, as you very well know."

"Someone might have slipped you a mickey, you never–"

"I'm not drugged, either! Jesus! I'm coming home." He clicked the phone off angrily and went to find a cab. On the way to the apartment he fingered his poker chip, which was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

* * *

Arthur stared at Eames grimly, having finally let him into the apartment after inspecting him for a while through the spyhole. Eames had waited him out, tapping one pointy toe, knowing Arthur would recognize his tells even forged as a woman.

"See? Not having you on, or drunk. Yet." He pushed past Arthur and made for the kitchen. "What have you got? Because I intend to remedy that latter state as rapidly as possible."

Arthur took the bourbon bottle from his hand. "Stop it. This is serious, Eames. We have to talk."

Eames rolled his eyes. "Oh, right, _now_ you want to talk. Last week when I told you about this happening you brushed me off and said I must've been dreaming!"

"Well, you've gotta admit, it's pretty far-fetched–"

" _Dream_ sharing's far-fetched, to the plebs." Eames turned and dropped disconsolately onto the couch, kicking off the uncomfortable shoes and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Arthur hated that.

Arthur came and sat in the armchair next to him. "Yeah, but the PASIV doesn't breach the laws of _physics_ , not like..." He waved a hand at Eames's extremely female body. "I mean, what about conservation of matter? I'm pretty sure you weigh a lot less like this than you did earlier today."

Eames peered down at himself and poked his left tit. "Maybe it's just differently distributed?" He sighed. "Anyway, I don't care _how_ it's happening, I just want it to bloody well _stop_."

"I think we probably _do_ need to know how, so's to prevent it," Arthur said. He stole a quick peek at Eames with a slightly horrified expression, then stared down at his hands again.

Eames suppressed another sigh. "I promise not to get female cooties on the furniture, darling." Arthur was the gayest _and_ the most uptight man he'd ever known, and that was really saying something. Bugger. There was no way Eames was getting any until he got his dick back, and even then, Arthur might be too spooked to risk it.

"How many times has it...? In reality, I mean."

"Once before as a woman, last week, after that corporate lawyer extraction."

"Nothing else?" Arthur had a crease between his eyebrows. Damn, he always could see right through Eames.

"I'm not sure, but there may have been a couple of times before that when I was... younger." Arthur's frown had deepened. "Not for long, and only by a few years."

"How could you tell?"

Eames crossed his arms over the offending boobs. "My most recent tatt vanished for a few hours. The one I had done in Hawaii three years ago."

"So it started, when? Two months back?"

"Yeah, about then. Not long after the Sydney job." It had been a prolonged extraction and he'd had to forge three different personas, two of them female, and one a teenage boy.

Arthur blew a breath out through his nose. "Right. It must be cumulative."

"What? Cumulative how?"

Arthur pursed his lips. "I did actually do some research last week just to be on the safe side, and there were a few reports I hacked into from the early days, when the military was experimenting–" he held a hand up, stopping Eames before he could ask. "They don't explain what's happening to you, because it's _completely impossible_ , but they might, maybe, offer some clues."

"What sort of reports?" Eames asked, getting that feeling of creeping dread back in his stomach.

"About forgers not being able to hold their forged persona when dream sharing."

Eames gestured impatiently. "Yeah, but that's true for any amateur, or maybe they were just rubbish at it. Not everyone can hold form like me."

"Professional pride aside," Arthur said dryly, "yes, you're one of the best, but some of those guys were pretty skilled, and it wasn't happening in the early experiments when they were first learning. It happened after several months. The researchers called it 'Forger Fatigue Syndrome', or 'Forger Instability'. They thought it happened because of too much time spent in forged personas. The PASIV equipment was cruder then, as well. Might have taken more of a toll."

Eames screwed up his face. "But it only happened when they were dream sharing, right? Not in–" he waved a hand at the room, "–the real world."

"You did check your totem, right?" Arthur asked. "I mean, mine's fine, but all this makes no damn sense–"

"Yes, I checked it," Eames snapped, frustrated. "The chip's fine, right denomination and everything, and I bet your die was OK, too." He could see from Arthur's expression that it had been. He wondered how many times Arthur had thrown it. "Face it; it's happening outside dreams."

Arthur bit his lip. "Maybe it's some sort of joint delusion from too much dream sharing?"

Eames shook his head. "No, other people can see me like this—an old woman last week commented on my dress, and a guy in the toilet saw me, tonight. I went into the men's, before I realized."

Arthur almost looked disappointed that they didn't have folie à deux. "This is seriously freaking me out, Eames," he said, his voice rising. "You're, you're warping _reality_ somehow–"

"Maybe I'm just that good a forger," Eames said, hooking his arms over the top of the couch so his tits stuck out and crossing his legs showily, mostly to get a rise out of Arthur and stop him panicking. Baiting him distracted Eames from panicking, as well.

Arthur groaned and clutched his head in his hands, but at least he wasn't hyperventilating.

"Look," Eames said, leaning forward, then realizing the resulting cleavage would be more than Arthur could handle in his present state. He stood. "I'm going to change and _you're_ going to pour us both a drink, and then we'll figure out how to stop this."

In his room, he took off the form-fitting cocktail dress and the bra—Eames hated bras with a passion but seemed unable to forge women with anything less than a D-cup—the hose, panties, all of it. He got into sweats and a loose t-shirt with lyrics by _The Clash_ on the front, then had to tighten the drawstring on the sweats which were threatening to slide off his hips.

When he rejoined Arthur, there were two glasses of bourbon on the coffee table. Arthur glanced up at him, seeming to relax a little now his rack was hidden behind "Sharif don't like it".

Eames sank back down on the couch and sipped his drink. "So, those researchers whose papers you hacked. Did they say what helped the forgers with this instability thing?"

Arthur took a drink then set the glass back on the table. "It's not the same situation," he said, his hands sketching helplessness.

"Close as we'll get, though, so tell me," Eames insisted.

Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair. "They made them take a break, of course, and they said the ones in relationships did better, stabilized faster."

"A break? So I can't work?" Eames had been afraid of that. "For how long?"

"How should _I_ know!" Arthur spat, clutching his drink in white-knuckled fingers. "This has never happened before! Or not outside science fiction movies."

Eames tamped down his own fear; no point both of them losing it. "How long did they need to... come right." He waved a hand. "In the research you found."

"I don't know, it varied. Two weeks without dream sharing? Three?"

"I can take a month off. Have a holiday. Hell, you could do with one, too."

Arthur frowned at him. "You need to get back to your normal self, first."

Eames took another drink. "It was temporary, the last times. I came right after an hour or so." He looked away, not meeting Arthur's worried gaze. "Yeah, it's lasting longer now, but I'll be myself soon. I know who I am, Arthur."

Did he, though? How much of this weirdness was from forging, and how much was just him, Eames? He'd always shaped himself to please others, being the boy his dad had wanted, playing rugby and drinking beer, getting his first tatt, crude as it was. Being the girlfriend his mum had needed, taking her shopping, complimenting her clothes and hair, learning to cook. Now he was some strange composite with stubble and muscles like his dad, flowery shirts like Mum, and the tatts, butch but artistic, coiling around his biceps and pecs, decorating him. He still had them, as a woman. Maybe they were strange enough to work either way.

Eames sighed and sank back into the couch. It was more than just his childhood, though. He'd always been... slippery, somehow fluid. It made him an expert thief and con man, bypassing society's rules. It made him a forger. He looked over at Arthur, neat and organized even in jeans and a t-shirt. Eames loved to tease him about having a stick up his ass but he needed Arthur's order and obsessive attention to detail, needed it to anchor him.

"Let's go to bed," Eames said, standing. Arthur looked up, wary, and Eames sighed. "Not to fuck. I'm tired, and they called this some sort of fatigue syndrome, right? So I ought to rest."

"I should... do some more research," Arthur muttered, glancing away. "We still don't–"

"Christ, I won't touch you," Eames said, annoyed. "I just... it's a comfort thing, OK?"

Arthur had the grace to look apologetic, and he followed Eames to their bedroom and went through his usual finicky bedtime routine without further protest. To spare his sensibilities, Eames undressed in the dark. He always slept naked and Arthur would just have to lump it.

In bed, they lay awkwardly side by side. Eames wanted to cuddle, but he knew the breasts and curves were a bridge too far for Arthur, so all he did was turn to face him. In the dim light through the curtains, Arthur was flat on his back with his hands clasped on his chest like a carved crusader on a tomb.

"You said those forgers the researchers studied who were in relationships got better faster," Eames said softly. Arthur's pale face turned toward him a little. "Yeah, so I think I know why. It's like... you ground me." He pulled a face and made his voice sardonic. "And I'm not getting laid until I change back, am I? So that's a compelling motivation."

Arthur snorted softly and turned to face him in the dark.

"Talk to me," Eames whispered. "Say what you like about me when I'm... me. Remind me who I am."

Arthur made a small noise in the back of his throat. He took a deep breath. "I like... your muscles," he whispered. "Your shoulders and back, and the long muscles in your legs."

"Yeah," Eames murmured, moving in the bed to feel them flex. "What else?"

"I like that you're hairy," Arthur said softly. "Not like a bear, but where it matters, on your chest and down your stomach."

"Mmmm," Eames purred, imagining himself in the shower, water sluicing over his head, down the hair on his arms, chest, groin, and down his legs.

"I like your stubble." Arthur sounded like he was getting into it now. It wasn't exactly erotic dirty talk, but it was edging in that direction and Eames felt heat welling, low in his belly. "I like how it makes you look... rough, kind of brutal."

"That's me, darling," Eames whispered. "Your bit of rough."

He could almost see Arthur roll his eyes. "Yeah, especially with my dick up your ass."

Eames grinned and writhed a little, clenching his ass, remembering. "What else?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. He felt hot, like he was melting.

"I like your cock," Arthur whispered hoarsely, breathing faster. "I miss the weight of it in my hand, the taste in my mouth."

Eames felt it ripple through him then, slamming him back into himself on a wave of arousal. He took Arthur's hand and drew it down. "This cock? Here?"

Arthur surged forward and kissed him, hands stroking everywhere—over Eames's stubbled jaw, his muscled arms, his hairy chest, his stiffening cock.

Holding Eames, mapping him.

Making him real.

* * *


End file.
